The Purity War
by X-Shadow.of.Darkness-X
Summary: "Don't follow me." Harry Potter's last words before he disappeared after defeating Voldemort, isolating himself from society. Many people searched for him. None succeeded. But when a new threat rears its head in the form of the Pureblood Supremacists, Harry must reveal himself to the world once again and take the war into his own hands. Multiple character deaths, M for a reason.


**The Purity War**

**Summary:**** "Don't follow me." Harry Potter's last words before he disappeared after defeating Voldemort, isolating himself from society. Many people searched for him. None succeeded. Eventually, people just stopped looking. But when a new threat rears its head in the form of the Pureblood Supremacists, Harry must reveal himself to the world once again and take the war into his own hands. This time, he has no-one to guide him. This time, it's up to him. Multiple character deaths, rated M for a reason.**

**A/N:**** This is a very AU story, and is rated M for a reason. There will be very dark themes explored as the story progresses, and many of the characters we all know and love will not make it to the end. You have been warned. All following chapters will be at least 5,000 words.**

**~Chapter One – Reflection~**

**~2010~**

The Hog's Head Inn. A dismal place by normal standards, avoided by most, frequented by few. The path leading to the pub was lined with empty and broken bottles of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey. The sign over the door was barely clutching to its bracket, and looked as if a sudden movement of air close to it would send it crashing to the doorstep below. The stone bricks were coated in filth, their original colour faded many years ago. The door itself was streaked with grime, and the lone window was so caked in grease that it barely functioned as a window.

The inside was as dirty and decrepit as the exterior. Dirty glasses hung from hooks behind the bar, over a surface covered in various spirits and liquors. The floor was strewn with straw, and the stench of alcohol, sweat and goats hung heavy in the air. The mismatched tables and chairs sat at rough angles to each other, making the small room look even smaller. The only clean thing in the room was a large portrait of a young girl over the fireplace, which seemed to have been kept spotless in an almost ritualistic manner. The entire bar was empty, save for the innkeeper and one man.

The man in question was wearing a long black cloak, the hood pulled up to completely conceal his face, silvery runes shimmering in the dim light. Long strands of raven hair were just visible framing his face, and his emerald eyes had a haunted look about them. He had been sitting in the corner for the best part of two hours, silently nursing a bottle of Blishen's Firewhiskey. He didn't react when a goat ambled past his table, but kept tapping the bottle against the table, beating out a steady tattoo on the woodwork.

The innkeeper was watching the stranger warily. The man made him uncomfortable. Why, though, he couldn't put his finger on. He just seemed to exude power and deadliness. He hadn't been in charge of the pub for long, but he was sure he had never seen the man in there before. He waved his wand over the dirty glasses, which cleaned themselves and flew over to hang themselves on hooks, looking just as dirty as before. He sighed. The bar had been so filthy that several Scouring Charms had barely made a difference to the pub.

Tossing the rag that the previous owner had thought constituted an adequate cleaning accessory under the bar, he made his way cautiously over to the hooded stranger. The man made no movement to indicate that he had seen the barman approaching. He stopped at the man's shoulder before clearing his throat nervously.

"Uh, sir? I'm closing up now."

The man didn't move.

"Sir?"

The man said nothing, but turned his head to stare directly at the innkeeper. He took an involuntary step back as the man's eyes met his own. The irises were Avada Kedavra green and seemed to be glowing slightly, causing a slight swirling effect.

The stranger didn't move, but a lance of pain shot through the innkeeper's mind as a searing hot presence stabbed at his consciousness. He stumbled back to the bar, muttering, "No rush, sir . . . In your own time . . . "

The stranger turned back to tapping his bottle against the table. The innkeeper tried to busy himself with one thing or another, but the man's silent presence did little to help his already strained nerves. During the war, Hogsmeade had been a major battleground, and businesses were now feeling the brunt of it. Even though the war was over, there were still small pockets of resistance cropping up here and there, making life difficult for people.

The war. The wizarding world had only just managed to rebuild after the Second Wizarding War when a new threat rose up in the form of the Pureblood Supremacists. A well-coordinated group of ex-Death Eaters and other Dark sympathisers. The innkeeper sighed and shook his head wearily. It was getting late, and dwelling on the past was doing little to improve his mood, and even less to quell the headache that was now throbbing in earnest. He flicked his eyes over to the table, but the stranger was gone. The innkeeper blinked. The stranger was gone. All that remained at the table was the bottle of Firewhiskey. He shook his head and pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids. Walking over to the door, he slid the bolt across and locked it.

Outside, Harry Potter drew his cloak around him, shielding himself from the worst of the biting cold of the early December air. Walking quickly, he soon reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Not stopping, he continued along an overgrown trail, finally reaching the small cave that Sirius had once inhabited. As he passed the edge of the enchantments he had set up, he felt the chill seep out of his bones, to be replaced by a comfortable warmth. Removing his cloak, he tossed it to the side, allowing it to fall into a heap on the floor.

The cave was as far from homely as you could possibly imagine. A pile of old rags served as a bed, and a large rock served as a table. Scattered around the cave were various books, their pages torn and dog-eared. Each one seemed to have been read several times. The spines were worn and cracked, some held together only by magic.

Harry allowed himself to sink down onto a smaller rock that had been press-ganged into service as a chair. He ran his hands through his matted hair, pushing it back out of his eyes. Reaching out, he clasped his hand around a small, dusty picture-frame, the only remnant of the life he had once had.

Four people were smiling and waving at him out of the frame. He raked his eyes over the picture, his eyes drawn to the two Weasleys, smiling widely, their faces full of cheer. Hermione was stood to Ron's left, her hand tucked around his waist, beaming widely. Harry gazed down at the picture for a few moments more, before tossing it back onto the rock. For a long time, the picture had been a source of comfort to him; when things seemed at their worst, it had given him hope and a reason to carry on in spite of everything. Now, though, the people in the frame seemed to be taunting him, forcing him to remember everything that he had lost in the name of freedom.

Freedom. It seemed such a strange and foreign concept now. At the start of the war, freedom had been the very thing he had been fighting for. But now, he felt more enslaved than ever. Enslaved by his thoughts, trapped in his own mind. The blood of so many on his hands, no matter how many times he washed them. Harry could vaguely recall an old Muggle quote: "None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe that they are free."

At the end of the war, he had thought that he would at last be free, free from the horrors of war and the expectations of so many to lead them out of the darkness. But he had been wrong. He had made mistakes. Costly mistakes. Hermione had tried to convince him that he had done the best he could, but he knew otherwise. He had had to sacrifice so much, and now, at the end of it all, it didn't seem worth it. He cast his gaze around at his squalid, bare surroundings. No, it was most certainly not worth it.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Looking back, Harry knew exactly how he would have done things differently. What if he had killed that man, or spared that woman? What if he hadn't fought in that battle? What if, what if, what if... That was Harry's life now, full of what-ifs and should-have-beens. It was not a life; it was merely an existence.

Standing up again, Harry walked over to the makeshift bed, falling backward into the pile, ignoring the flash of pain as his back collided with the solid stone beneath the rags. He would visit Hermione tomorrow. Of the survivors, she had been affected the worst. It was the least he could do.

He flicked his wand, extinguishing the soft light that seemed to emanate from the walls. As the cave plunged into darkness, Harry rolled over and closed his eyes.

_What if, what if, what if..._


End file.
